


The Price of Velvet Walls

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of Violence, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 09:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Between figurines, shoelaces, and crime, a little boy grew up. If only anyone had been watching.(In which the adults in Tim's life realize what their self-motivation has bought: everything but Tim.)





	The Price of Velvet Walls

The hallways no longer whispered.

Tim knew why. They never whispered when his parents were home.

Janet’s laughter rippled throughout the foyer, causing Tim to look away from the curtains he was sitting under.

Velvet.

The curtains were always velvet.

He didn’t know why, but at the same time had the suspicion at his mother wanted a reminder for him.

Janet wore velvet.

Tim knew this.

“Tim,” she called out, heels clacking against the tile. “Tim, did you see the figurine from Çatalhöyük? I wanted you to look at it before it was handed over to the museum. Your father brought up the topic of a fertility goddess due to her figure.” She crossed her arms. "Like that's a surprise."

He turned away.

“Oh?” The heels brushed against the carpet. She settled beside him. “Do you disagree?”

Tim shrugged.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”

The boy shook his head. How could he be mad at her? She was velvet.

Her soft brown hair fell against her face. Her cold hands reached out, icy fingertips chilling him to the bone. “Are you all right, Tim?”

Tim looked into her crystalline eyes. “I’m always all right, Mom.” He smiled.

She sat back. “You know,” she mused quietly after several moments of silence. Her whispers took up the space in the hallways. “In Çatalhöyük, families didn’t live together. The genetic code of the buried bodies didn’t match from each household. Why fertility would be revered if families didn’t stay together is…” She cleared her throat and brought her son to his feet. “¿Debemos prepararnos para la fiesta, sí?”

Reaching out. She always spoke Spanish when she was reaching out. When she was making sure that Timmy was still there inside, between those vacant blue eyes.

They had matching blue eyes, deep blue and shielded enough to break a glacier.

Tim’s mouth felt dry. He didn’t want Spanish to be their last resort. They had shared Spanish when they were happy. When he was barely two and toddling around, shrieking with laughter as they played hide and go seek while his nanny drew his bath. When he was four and they teased Jack, who could speak it but always sounded like a burnt piece of toast in the rich language. When he was six and they discussed theories and mind puzzlers, her cold hands clasped in his small ones. He always wanted to hold her hands. He always wanted to warm them, but never could.

And now he was eleven and Spanish was the last resort.

(Why was he always the last resort?)

“¿Sí, Timmy?”

He blinked. “Sí, mama,” he replied. The words dashed to the frigid tile, crushed underneath her clacking heels. They drew further away from the velvet curtains, walking through the silent hallways.

Tim’s hands were cold.

Janet closed her eyes, jaw clenched.

(I’m sorry I did this to you, Tim.)

* * *

 

The TV’s volume rebounded the corners the room. It’s all right. At least it took up space.

Sometimes Tim felt like he was shrinking.

“Tim?”

Dad.

Tim turned his head, taking his feet off the coffee table. “The news is on,” he mumbled.

Jack sat beside him, heedful of the wall between them.

Instantly Tim was upset. He wasn’t Robin any more. He had done what his dad had asked. He had done everything and still was thrown out.

Tim did not put that wall there.

At least, not originally.

“The Çatalhöyük figurine was transferred to Metropolis,” Jack stated, fingers knotted together. His eyes never left the screen.

Tim shrugged.

“Janet found that.”

He didn’t respond.

His dad swallowed, dark hair dull in the television’s glow. “The Çatalhöyük people threw out a lot of their things,” he said. “They were tidy. That’s how we found what we did. What they saw as trash, we saw as…” He cleared his throat. “I cheated on her, you know.”

Tim nodded, running a hand through his bangs. “I know. She knew, too.”

Jack finally tore his eyes away from the screen, snapping their wide gaze on his teenaged son. “She did?”

Tim nodded again. “Your shoelaces were untied.”

The man gaped at the boy beside him, too many words and too little paths taken. “I love you, Timothy” he had repeated in his head over and over, stroking his baby’s head. “I love you, Timmy” he had repressed after shutting the toddler out of his study, ignoring the trembling bottom lip. “I love you, Tim” he had not said before the trip that led to Haiti.

Too many opportunities and they never passed his lips.

“Are you all right, Tim?”

Tim smiled. “I’m always all right, Dad.”

Something twinged in Jack’s chest. He went to reach across the wall–

Tim stood up. He still would not look at the man. “I’m heading to bed.”

Jack nodded, waiting until the rustling ceased and the door was closed. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched.

(I’m sorry I did this to you, Tim.)

* * *

 

The cave was silent.

The boy’s eyes were glazed over.

Not a good night. There was blood still on the Robin uniform.

Bruce shook his head. Two deaths too many.

Tim was stuck on the black leather chair at the computer console, bones rigid and hands still.

Such a young boy.

How come he had never seen it?

How come he had never seen the child waiting, waiting, _waiting_ not to be noticed, but to give him what he could? Who never asked for anything in return? Who stood behind him, beside him, in front, and still gently leading the way? Who accepted him again and again, even after his fatal mistakes?

And now that child was a young man. A young man with a smile that twisted like broken bones and broken promises and broken hearts.

Bruce cleared his throat.

“Are you all right?”

He had asked. He had finally asked.

Tim looked up into his eyes. “I’m always all right, B.” His smile was shy and stiff, like a boy who had learned to fit himself under tables and hide in dark corners. Like a boy who told lies in exchange for smiles–or worse, tolerance. He rolled back his shoulders, tapping his cold fingertips against the console desk. “Did you know that the Çatalhöyük settlements were built upon each other, accessible only by holes in the roofs?”

If there had been holes in the roof, Tim may have gotten to them in time.

Bruce nodded, eyes wary. He stepped closer, footsteps echoing. “Hit the showers?” he ventured gently. Hesitantly.

Tim shrugged, drawing himself upright. “Do you need anything?” he asked, expecting to be waved off.

The man reached out and clasped the boy’s shoulder. He squeezed.

So many chances. So many rejections.

He had trained this boy to step away.

“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce whispered tightly. “Gracias,” he murmured, ruffling the dark hair gratefully, as if he may never feel this child’s presence again.

Tim blinked. He swallowed.

He was still there.

“Always, B,” Tim promised, placing his gloved hand atop his surrogate father’s and squeezing back.

(Even if he was the last resort.)

The man turned away, listening to the trickle of the shower that would wash away the night’s blood but not the scarlet slashes on his child’s mind. Had he known the price he would pay...

Bruce closed his eyes, jaw clenched. Posture mournful. Head bowed as if to plea.

(I’m sorry I did this to you, Tim.)

**Author's Note:**

> Translation:  
> We must prepare for the party, yes?  
> Yes, mom.
> 
> Please note: I am not an expert on the Çatalhöyük culture.


End file.
